Butterfly
by Two-on-a-Tower
Summary: Downton Abbey AU: Thomas is a successfull author, who is bored by his fame. Jimmy, on the other hand, is a young man, who is easily impressed by words-and by Thomas. author!Thomas, fanboy!Jimmy (Parts 2/3)
1. The Beginning

**Chapter: The Beginning**

People bore me. They really do. They walk through the world without a destination. When they look at you, they aren't aware that their eyes are closed. They speak but never stop to listen. Their movements, their thoughts – everything is just so damn predictable.

When they see me, they don't see me imprisoned in skin and hidden behind marble doors. They see my empty eyes coloured in by nature, and they start smiling. Their heartbeats increase and their faces turn an unnatural shade of red. But it is not me, who they really want to see, to meet. It is what I symbolise: success.

I've just published my fifth book in three years. Three of my recent books were made into successful films and I staged four plays. Literary genius, some call me but who are they to give me names? I am just another lonely man walking on the dust of others. My only skill is to observe. It is what I do. It is my nature.

I'm sitting in another bookstore. They brought me a table, a reading lamp, books, pens and a teacup so that I look superficially like an author. It's more than ridiculous but I let it pass. This is going to be my last reading-tour. No one knows this but me.

But then again it's true. I'll quit. I'll stop reading out loud to a bunch of boring faces. I'll stop writing for people who are too blind to see the actual words. I'll be just writing for myself, and after my death, the masses can destruct my words but I will thankfully be asleep.

"Mr Barrow, are you ready? I'd like to open the shop. Look at all the people who are here to see you. You must be so proud of yourself," Mr Edward, the bookstore-owner says while going to the front door. I can hear some people chattering. Every now and then I see some hair - sometimes blonde, sometimes brown - and sometimes even a camera through the tiny window.

"Yes, Mr Edward, I'm. And thank you for letting me do this here. You really have a beautiful bookstore." I smile and nod. This is what people expect. And this is what really sells: A young and polite author with a pretty face. Damn my face.

"Here you go," cries Mr Edward before the crowd rushed in. The noise is deafening. I don't know how many of them are screaming my name. Fools! Don't you see that I'm sitting here? That I have my hands on my lap and not on my ears? Fools! Fools! Fools! But I'm smiling. The storm is an unpleasant part of me.

I'm signing my name a thousand times this day. I'm listening to stories about people I don't know and I'm smiling with my thin paper-lips curled upwards. They can tear, I have to be careful. But I'm not. I'm smiling like a fool in a mirror.

I'm taking pictures with blue eyes and blond hairs, with round bodies and tiny hands. I'm saying "Ah, really?" and "Thank you very much" so often that I don't know what they actually mean, and yet I continue.

After three or four hours, Mr Edwards finally closes the bookstore. And I start breathing again. Thick and dark air is filling my lungs and sitting heavy on my chest. I'd like to ball my fist and bash my chest but it is no use. I tried it before. The feeling of narrowness always remains.

"God Lord, Mr Barrow. Are you alright? You're looking a bit pale?" I'm surprised that he has noticed.

"Yes, I am. No worries, Mr Edward. I just need some air. If it's alright with you, I'll go…" I point with my hand to the brown door.

"Oh, yes. Go and get some air, Mr Barrow. I'll clean this mess up. You already did enough. Oh Lord, all those people, huh?! They bought so many books." He smiles and his eyes are shining in a bronze light.

The moment I step out of the room, I'm finally able to breathe again. Cold air keeps me alive; at least for another moment.

I breathe for a second time and start walking with my hands in my pockets and my eyes on the ground. It's one of those autumn days that are grey and sludgy, that remained you of your aimlessness and of you mortality.

I wish I had some music with me, but I haven't. I'm a fool who has to bear his own thoughts. Thankfully I don't live far away, actually just two streets across the bookstore. But I have the habit of never going home straight away. People could follow and I don't want them near me. Not anymore.

At the final junction I have to wait because the traffic light is red. I lean upon its dirty metal and stare ahead. Cars became soon shapeless and all I can see are the dizzying movement of others and all I can hear are my repeating thoughts until now:

'Um, Mr Barrow it is?' I hear a young man asking but I don't react. I just keep starring ahead. If they are unsure, the usually don't dare bother twice.

'Um, I just wanted to say that I really adore your work and that I'm probably your biggest fan. I,' I hear him swallow, 'I just wanted to ask you if you could sign my copy of your book.' I close my eyes for three seconds:

1

2

3

and turn my head around.

'Thank you for supporting me. I really appreciate your words, but I cannot sign your book right now because I'm on my way home.' I say automatically and force my lips to bend and pray that I look human. Sarah always said that with my fake smile I look like a handsome devil, but she didn't know that I just felt like a woeful boy. We were friends, and yet she didn't know much about me. Now she is gone. Just like everybody else. Maybe I'm a devil after all.

'Um, Mr Barrow, do you feel alright?' Surprisingly, he is still here.

'Do you begin all your sentences with 'um'?' I retort and break my rule of never asking questions. And he? He laughs. Youthful and free. And without being aware of my own actions, I look up and into his eyes. Different shades of blue are dancing like waves in the summer sea.

'No, I don't. I'm terribly sorry if you take me for a fool now,' he says.

'I don't,' I say. 'I just have to go now. I'm sorry.'

I mean it.

And the tightness in my chest is suddenly gone.


	2. The Middle

**2\. The Middle**

I watch the smoke of my cigarette rising. I see how it swirls and dissolves near my dusty window. My eyes follow the grey air lazily, but my mind is busy with picturing _his_ face instead of the words I have to write down.

It was two days ago that I saw him. I don't even know his name, but I remember his face, his blue eyes and his blonde hair that was parted on the left and slightly combed back. However, a nice face isn't worth anything when the eyes have read my words. I can't be with somebody who likes me for my words, who may confuse me with my written text. Sometimes I want to scream: I'm more than that. Because I am; but I keep quiet and alone. Writing is my love. And my thoughts are my death.

I stare at the sheet of paper in front of me. I have written a couple of meaningless sentences but I'm bored stiff of my own writing. This happens sometimes. Usually it encourages me to think more about my text more about life, more about the beauty of the meaningless, but not today.

I sigh and look out of the window. It's going to rain today. Thankfully the penultimate reading is in a hall near the old elementary school I attended when I was a child. I called for a cab 15 minutes ago. I even considered calling Sarah, but she isn't my friend anymore. I know that but my heart keeps forgetting.

Slowly I take a final drag and stub out my cigarette. It's time to go. I grab my hat, my coat, and my briefcase before I close my door and leave my words behind. But my thoughts I take with me.

As I enter the hall, I see my table and all the chairs neatly placed in rows of 12 in front of the stage. As soon as I close the door, a bald man with a grey beard hurries towards me. His hand grabs mine and shakes it strongly.

'It's good to see you, Mr Barrow. I hope you've had a pleasant journey?'

'I live in this town.' I say dryly and wonder if a cab ride of 15 minutes can be considered a journey.

'Oh, how convenient.' He smiles, but his eyes are already darting back to the stage and the men working on the final pieces. He looks like he wants to scream, his face his red and his eyes are wide opened, but apparently he has second thoughts because he says quite calmly. 'Please follow me.'

I nod and do so. We go past the stage through a black door.  
'This is your room.' The man smiles again. I wish he would stop. 'If you need anything, please say so. Everybody is here to make you comfortable.' And then it is my turn to act the friendly fool.

'Thank you. Thank you very much. I just need some alone-time. If you know what I mean.'

'Yes, of course.'

He leaves and I let out the breath I didn't know I had held. I don't really know why people stress me so much lately. Maybe it's because I'm tired, maybe it's the people.

I look around the room. It's tiny with only a brown sofa and a wooden table near the window. On the table are a green teapot and a matching cup as well as some brown biscuits I can't really identify but will eat anyway.

I sit down, close my eyes and try to picture myself and how happy I'll be as soon as this is over.

'Um, Mr Barrow, are you awake?'

. . .

'Mr Ba—'

'What the … ', I groan and open my eyes slowly. I see a green cup of cold tea and I know that I'm still here. My heart is pumping fast, and cold sweat lingers on my skin. My head is heavy with sleep and as I finally look up I see him and my breathing hitches. Damn my body.

'Are you stalking me?' I ask after I recovered.

'Um, no,' he said slowly. 'I work here. I'm Jimmy, the assistant and I'm here to … um … assist you. So do you need anything before we go to the stage? More tea? Biscuits? A damp cloth?'

'Why would I need a damp cloth?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know. To cool you down, maybe, because—' a smile spreads across his lips, 'you are so—'

'Don't you dare finish this sentence,' I hiss as soon as I've realised what he's going to say. 'Don't you dare,' I repeat, and yet I'm smiling. This bastard makes me smile. I shake my head in disbelieve.

'Okay, no damp cloth for you. Anything else I can do for you, Mr Barrow?'

'To begin with, you could call me Thomas,' I offer. He nods.

'I can do that, _Thomas_.' He says my name as if he's said it a thousand times before. It sounds so natural, so warm. I shiver slightly. I wish I weren't such a simple fool.

'What else can I do for you?', he smiles and I cannot decide if it's true or if he is a really good actor. I'm inclined to challenge him, and yet afraid to break my toy that brings me so much happiness.

'You could sit with me for a moment and talk,' I suggest and add after an appropriate pause, 'I'm always a bit nervous before the reading, you know. All those people out there starring at me.'

'Oh, of course. Ehm, sure. I can sit with you for a moment.' He looks to the door and back to me as if he's expecting Mr. I've-already-forgotten-his-name to come back. But to my satisfaction, he sits down.

'You smell good,' I say, partly because it's true and partly because I enjoy seeing him blush. And he does.

'Thank you. You too, I guess.'

'So, Jimmy, besides assisting, what else do you do?'

'Nothing much. Reading, watching TV—I'm really not an interesting person.'

I turn slightly to the left to face him.

'I can't believe that. Tell me three things that you really like, three things that you need in your life and let me be the judge if you're interesting or not.'

He blushes again. Isn't he sweet?

'Uh, I'd say books—'

'One specific book, please,' I interject.

'Johnny Got His Gun: I mean, I like your books, too, but—'

'You don't need to explain yourself. Just tell me.'  
'Okay, okay.' He wrings his hands. I seem to intimidate him. I feel sorry and smile.

'I just want to get to know you.'

'Okay, so I'd say Johnny Got His Gun, my guitar and my knives, I guess.'

'Your knives?' I feel my eyebrows rising. Did I really misjudge him so badly?

'Yes, chef knives. What can I say, I love cooking.'

'Yes?'

'Yes,' he repeats and I can see his Adam's apple dancing as he swallows.

'That actually sounds really interesting,' I say. 'Do you know what I like?'

'Uhm, books?'

'Yes, Jimmy, I like books, but I also like adventures, the unpredictable, events that are more beautiful in reality than printed on paper.'

He stares at me wide eyes. I have all his attention.

'Jimmy, would you cook something for me?'

'For you? Of course, yes.' He's is so eager. I like that a lot. Carefully I place my hand on his upper leg. It is so warm and strong. I can feel his electrifying energy. I can feel how it travels through my fingertips to my arm, to my whole body. I feel alive.

'Now?'

He hesitates for a moment. But then he understands and his smile is all I need. I stand up and grab his hand.

'Let's go,' I say.

'Okay,' and for the moment I forget that he has read my words.


End file.
